


Maybe This Would be the Year

by MidnightChardonnay



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: American English, Americanisms, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 01:14:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17033556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightChardonnay/pseuds/MidnightChardonnay
Summary: Written for the Fairest of the Rare Christmas Fic Exchange, as a gift to AlexandraO.A/N - I know. Biscuits vs Cookies. I am American, and it just didn't flow as well for me as it would have if I were writing in British terms. I'm sorry in advance, and thanks for understanding. :)xoMC





	Maybe This Would be the Year

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlexandraO](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexandraO/gifts).



_ Maybe this would be the year... _

 

She stood in the kitchen, her apron and hands covered in cookie dough, looking out at the groups conversing in her sitting room. She never thought these particular guests would ever make a tradition of spending the holidays together, but war changes people. 

 

Harry and Ginny were standing near the tree, drinks in hand, laughing at something Luna had said. Draco was in the midst of a serious, likely business related, talk with Theodore Nott; Pansy near the fireplace, sipping a glass of firewhisky and glaring at them after having been dumped by Nott a few months prior. Too high maintenance, he’d said. He’d had enough of that dealing with the Dark Lord all those year he’d spent as a Death Eater. Neville and Finn talking about...something. 

 

Thorfinn Rowle. She looked back down into her mixing bowl as he caught her staring at him. She continued kneading the dough by hand, the way her grandmother had taught her all those years ago. She pretended not to hear the chuckle that escaped his throat as she pretended she hadn’t been memorizing the way his dimples showed when he smiled, or the way his shoulders curved into biceps that rippled under his form fitting shirt. She completely ignored the warmth that spread across her cheeks, down her neck, and pooled in her belly when he glanced her direction with a knowing smirk on his smug face. 

 

When he had first accompanied Draco to Hermione’s flat all those years ago, he was still a slightly snobby former Death Eater, who sniffed and looked down at her for the blood that ran through her veins. Not one for confrontation, he put on a front as he was a guest in her home, and his father had drilled respect into him as a child. Noticing the attitude, Draco had made an effort throughout the evening to include both Thorfinn and Hermione in conversation, as if to show the former that blood didn’t matter anymore. Throughout that first evening, his attitude toward her thawed a bit, and by the end of the night he was trying not to laugh at her corny jokes, and got caught up discussing Anti-werewolf laws with her, though they were of differing opinions at the time. 

 

Over the next few years, his beliefs began to change. He took the time to learn about the world around him without others telling him what to think. He learned to form his own opinions based on knowledge and education, rather than brainwashing and manipulation he’d lived through in his younger years. He had befriended Bill Weasley and asked questions about lycanthropy. He started calling on his family’s old house elf, learning about their lives, bonds, and what it meant to her to be a servant of his house. To Hermione’s surprise, he seemed to have softened toward the creature, and actually became her friend. Helping her, as well as showing her respect when she did things for him. No longer ordering, but asking the elf for help when he needed it. 

 

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t hear him approach her from behind. He leant on the counter next to her, and swept a finger into the bowl, sampling the raw dough that she was still absentmindedly toying with. He let out a delighted groan as the flavors washed through his mouth.

 

A soft squeak escaped her as she jumped at the sound of the man next to her. She turned and took a step back, as color flooded her cheeks again. 

 

“Good Godric, you scared me, Finn!” She pressed a hand to her chest to settle her nerves, as she caught her breath again. “You really shouldn’t sneak up on someone like that.”

 

“I knew you wouldn’t have given me a taste if I’d just asked for it, and I would have missed out on the look on your face.” He chuckled, his dimples showing again, making her heart beat just a little faster. 

 

“Of course I wouldn’t have. Cookie dough shouldn’t be eaten raw. It can make you sick.” She scolded, looking away from him quickly.

 

“You know that we can’t get those Muggle illnesses, Hermione,” he laughed as he snuck a finger of dough again, as she just missed smacking his hand away in time. “Besides, who do you know that has actually contracted salmonetta anyway? They probably made that up to keep the children out of it.” 

 

“Salmon _ ella. _ And you’re probably right, but still. Hands off until after they are done baking.” 

 

“Why do you still do that the Muggle way, anyway? Don’t you know there’s magic for that?” He leaned in with a devilish grin as he asked the question. He asked the same question every year, and every year it was the same answer. 

 

“It’s how my grandmother taught me, and how I’ve always done it. She told me that mixing by hand means there is more love baked in than when you use a mixer. Or a charm, in our case.” 

 

He grinned at her as he always did, watching her face soften as she thought of the older woman who had long since passed on. He loved that look. Distant, lost in memories, eyes full of love for times past. She had grown up in a different world, different times. He wondered if she ever missed the way things were before finding out she was a witch. 

 

_ Maybe this will be the year,  _ Hermione thought to herself as she looked into his bright blue eyes, full of mischief, and just a hint of longing. 

 

He took a small step back and turned to his friend as Draco approached to refill his glass, a knowing look on his face as he watched the two interact the same way they had for the last five years. 

 

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, the sudden space between the two creating a cool breeze between them. 

 

“Malfoy. Nice to see you here tonight,” Hermione stated casually, ever the gracious host. 

 

“Granger. You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Are you about done in here?” he replied. 

 

“What do you mean?” she asked quickly, obviously flustered. “Nothing is goin-”

 

“The biscuits, Hermione. Are they about finished? You know how I enjoy them.” he laughed, pretending to have innocently asked the question. 

 

“Oh. Yes. Well, they still need to go in the oven. I’ll bring you a couple when they’re done.” 

 

He nodded, winking at his friend as he walked away. 

 

“Hermione—” Finn started. 

 

“Go wash your hands,” she interrupted. “You can help me roll these so I can get them in the oven.” 

 

They worked side by side without another word, standing close but not touching. Every few minutes she would catch him watching her work. Not that he needed to. He’d spent years watching her make cookies the Muggle way. He could probably make them himself in his sleep. He’d never been allowed to help before, though. 

 

_ Maybe this would be the year... _

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
